


You Live You Learn

by Treegoats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, F/F, Gen, POV Theon Greyjoy, PTSD, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Recovery, Theon Greyjoy-centric, mention of genital mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treegoats/pseuds/Treegoats
Summary: In Meereen, Theon gets to know the Unsullied, he learns of Ramsay Bolton's death, he benefits from a generous help.
Relationships: Grey Worm/Missandei, Minor Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen - Relationship, Past Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy - Relationship, Theon Greyjoy & Grey Worm, Theon Greyjoy & Yara Greyjoy
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	You Live You Learn

"Unsullied know no fear," says Torgo Nudho.

"Reek knows fear," Theon says quietly.

"What do you say?"

But Theon shakes his head, unwilling to explain.

The Unsullied officers pay it no mind. They've grown used to him. Theon doesn't unsettle them.

Undeterred, Torgo Nudho continues: "I was taught rule: Fear is weakness. I learned rule well. But a man, Daario Naharis of Tyrosh, taught me: Not knowing fear is also weakness." Torgo Nudho nods, serious. "Daario Naharis is stupid man but in this he was clever."

They have assembled to discuss attack strategies and what with Yara and Daenerys busy with other important things, it's Theon they dispatched to help. He meant to remain quietly in the background, safely insignificant, but now Torgo Nudho looks right at him and says: "If Reek knows fear, you must contribute to plan."

Ice twists in his belly. Theon opens his mouth to protest.

He's unfit, he's a failed warrior, what use could he possibly-- but he stops himself from speaking. _Don't run away from this._

He looks at Torgo Nudho and nods.

\--

"When Queen Daenerys Stormborn gave me choice, I chose the name Torgo Nudho over the name my mother gave me," says Torgo Nudho. "After they cut me, the masters gave me new name: Torgo Nudho. Gray Worm. To remind me I am nothing. Vermin. But now it reminds me of my power. Do you understand?"

He leans forward, stiff and stern and intense. They are sitting in the shade, surrounded by carved stone and columns.

"It fills me with pride. I chose this one name," he repeats. 

His eyes are black in black as he looks at Theon. Theon concentrates to hold his gaze. 

"But you chose to keep both names. Name given by your master, name given by your mother."

Theon starts, taken aback.

"No! My name is Theon of House Greyjoy..."

"That is not always name you use."

Memories of panicked sobbing, of cowered pleading. _No, please, Reek, my name is Reek..._

It is not.

Hot shame creeps up Theon's neck. How often have they seen him like that? Trembling and muttering for all to gawk at, like the madman he is?

But Torgo Nudho's face is entirely without disgust.

"Is smart," he says.

"Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen has many names. She has name for every great thing she did."

He nods, as if that settles the matter.

"What is great thing you did as Reek?"

Theon forgets to breathe for just a moment.

To his surprise, the answer comes easily:

"Survive... Escape."

Torgo Nudho smiles sharp and fierce and so does Theon and he doesn't care that it shows off all of his broken teeth.

\--

"You know they screw, the Unsullied, little brother?" says Yara, long limbs stretched out on a table. "I keep meeting them in the brothels. They didn't lose interest in fucking just for lack of a cock."

Theon stares at her, face blank. He is unfortunately quite intimate with the ways one can fuck and be fucked after having been dismembered, thank you very much.

"Yara," he says, and he's relaxed his ways enough around her that he doesn't mind letting his exaperation show. "That is not the point."

Yara raises an eyebrow. "You've been hanging around with the Unsullied. Didn't they show you any tricks?"

A headache is mounting behind Theon's eyes. He loves his sister and he always took pride in being Ironborn, but sometimes--

Does she really need it spelled out that Ramsay might have taught him every game and every trick in the world and it was all a horror?

"I learn from them," he agrees. "But not about that."

She opens her mouth, a mockery on her lips, but his eyes find hers and he says: "Yara, I don't want to," and maybe, maybe this time, something clicks in her mind, because she doesn't press.

Instead, she fondly clasps her hand on his shoulder and says: "Keep up standing for yourself, Theon, it's a good look on you."

\--

The Unsullied are training maneuvers and it is eerie to watch them move through space, all perfectly coordinated motion, all identical thrust, identical step, identical turn, like black ants spreading into formation. Even at rest, they organise themselves into precise patterns. Theon has yet to see an Unsullied drunk.

He's never seen anything quite like this. They _are_ very far away from home.

"Unsullied are very brave," Missandei says. "They were trained to obey without question and to cooperate perfectly."

She, too, is watching the Unsullied train, though her eyes remain set on one particular soldier.

Torgo Nudho pretends he doesn't see her watching, back held straight and face all serious, but his little glances over to her side belie his attention. "Unsullied are not well trained in deception," Missandei comments, with a fond smile.

Theon will never find value in perfect obedience, he doesn't think, though he couldn't tell if that's the Ironborn in him speaking, or the creature once trapped who learned the truth of obedience so well.

A chill wants to run down his back.

But he sees two Unsullied share their skins of water with each other, one softly wiping the sweat from another's brow, and he sees Torgo Nudho's solemn smile, and whatever that is, it is different from what he knows. 

"Do you disapprove of what you see?" asks Missandei, ever perceptive.

Theon stumbles over a sudden panic ( _Questions are a trick, questions are a trick!)_ until he regains his footing in time and place. Will he ever get used to have his opinion solicited honestly? 

"What if they have questions?" he asks, quietly.

Missandei looks at him.

"Then our Queen will welcome and answer them," she says. "We here all were granted freedom of mind and purpose."

May it really be so.

\--

"In Essos, there are masters, and there are slaves," says Torgo Nudho. "Until we forced an end to it."

Theon listens with nominal interest. He already knows this. But Torgo Nudho is going somewhere with this.

"How come in Westeros you were Prince and at same time you were slave?"

Theon swallows a swell of unhappiness. Torgo Nudho means no ill, he just doesn't know.

"I wasn't a slave," he says.

Torgo Nudho and Missandei look at him with surprise.

"Did this one misunderstand?"

Theon shakes his head, tries to contain his unrest.

"I was a captive," he explains, "a hostage."

He's never ever told anyone this, he realises. He doesn't want to. But here are these two strangers, these Easteners who have never known the Starks, have never known the Boltons, have never heard of Winterfell, and who politely await his answer.

"The ... man (-- _monster, God--_ ) who last held me captive broke me because it pleased him to do so." _I made you my bitch_. "That's all."

He doesn't add: _And because I deserved it_ , even though it's true.

Torgo Nudho nods, thoughtful.

"Masters destroy will of Unsullied to make them strong soldiers to sell for much money," he says.

Theon grits his broken teeth and makes no effort to hide his bitterness, just the once.

"Master destroyed Reek because it was fun," he says.

( _and because I begged him to, and because in truth he was merciful and kind, and because who even needs ten fingers? and because he was teaching me an important lesson, and because you must remember your name, and because he wouldn't have if I could just have been the right thing to be, and because he cared, and because, because--)_

Torgo Nudho looks unsurprised. "Masters do this to some," he agrees.

There sits Torgo Nudho, lean and strong and solemn, and there sits Reek, famished and limping and always, always, always so scared.

"This one's Masters are all dead now," says Torgo Nudho. "Nailed on my spear, burned by dragon fire." He hits a fist against his chest. "It was best day of Torgo Nudho's life."

Theon lowers his head. He can't imagine Ramsay Bolton dying, not ever.

"I bet it was," he says, softly.

\--

"You know he's dead, right?" Tyrion says, sipping from his cup of wine.

It's way past midnight and Theon doesn't quite know what to make of Tyrion's sudden appearance by his side. They haven't exchanged two sentences since that time in the Great Pyramid's throne room.

"Who?"

They are standing on the balcony. Theon has been trying to catch some fresh air, to dispel the night's terrors.

Tyrion Lannister plays with the cup in his hand, a weird expression on his face.

"The Bastard Ramsay Bolton. You've been making quite the ruckus about him in your sleep."

Flashes of nightmare linger under Theon's skin. He must have; Ramsay Bolton reigns his dreams, whenever he dares to sleep, which is rarely.

"It's impolite, really, _some_ of us are trying to find sweet deliverance, and you are ruining peace of mind for us all, --"

But whatever jape follows on the Lannister's lips, Theon never hears. Meaning connects, then crumbles. Snow seals his ears. He simply cannot comprehend these words, all these clever clever syllables that make no sense.

Ramsay Bolton wouldn't die, everyone must know that.

He wouldn't die and he always knows those who'd try to escape him. He'll hunt them dead, but he'll flay them first, and cut away a finger or three, and hurt them, hurt them so bad, oh, so creatively hurt them--

"You're lying," Theon hears himself say, "you're lying!! It's a lie, but I won't believe you! It's a trick, I won't fall for it!"

The walls have been slipping sideways. His vision dimmed. Somehow he found himself on the floor, now he's crawling backwards. Like a rat in a trap. Quick, quick! Before it's too late.

"You can't fool me!" he shouts, and then he finds his feet and runs away, runs as fast as he can stumble.

\--

The next time they see each other, Theon forgot all about it.

The Lannister approaches him with a look not of reproach, but of... what?

"Lord Greyjoy, a word?" he asks.

Confusion spreads in Theon's belly, but he nods, ever compliant.

"About last night--"

Theon looks at him in a daze. What was last night?

"What I said last night--"

Theon furrows his brow but draws a blank.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but ... I don't recall..."

Tyrion opens his mouth in disbelief.

"Seriously?"

Theon suppresses the impulse to cower.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Tyrion rubs his forehead with a sigh and shakes his head, uncharacteristically at loss for words.

"Well, that is awkward," he says.

He looks at the Greyjoy, seeking his eyes. "I was telling you last night about the death of the bastard Ramsay Bolton," he repeats.

Theon's eyes turn grey like stone.

"Do you hear me?" says Tyrion, but Theon doesn't.

Salt water fills his lungs. His ears fill with yelling and the rip of skin. There is no Theon, not here, not ever.

\--

"Lord Tyrion Lannister has been inquiring about you," says Missandei.

They have been working on cataloguing their stocks, in preparation of the sea voyage. A way to make himself useful, at least.

Theon looks up, mistrustful and perplexed.

"About what?" he says, suspecting of nothing good. He _is_ a murderer and a turncloak. Lord Lannister won't have any good things to say about him. Not that it matters.

"Have you been remembering your days?" asks Missandei, suddenly changing the subject.

Theon looks at his hands ( _flayed, bloody_ , no, scarred, actually, half-healed), then at her. "Depends," he says.

"That's what he's been inquiring about," says Missandei.

Theon's brow twists into a silent question.

"Lord Lannister has been wondering if you're mad," says Missandei.

Theon nods. "You know I am," he says.

Missandei doesn't protest him.

"The Lord Tyrion Lannister has been trying to talk to you about something, it seems, but you won't listen."

Theon shrugs and looks away. Reek just wants to do his work. Work, work, work. The reason he's still alive is to do this work.

Missandei, never one to push the boundaries of politeness, doesn't press the subject.

\--

 _Please don't hurt me please don't hurt me don't hurt me any more please please don't_ _please_

But he _will_ hurt him, he will, he always does, he always always always does, _always_ and forever--

\--

"What the _fuck_ 's been going on with you?" Yara accuses.

Her voice is angry, but her eyes are concerned.

"Theon, little brother, you look like shit. It's a disgrace." She grabs his chin with ungentle fingers, assessing, judging his trembling form. "You were doing so well. I don't need this shambling ghost, I need my _brother._ It is really the news of the bastard's death that put you in this state? _"_

Tricks, tricks, tricks, everywhere you look. And danger, danger, terrible danger.

He just wants it to stop. He wants it to _stop_.

\--

Please make it stop

\--

Torgo Nudho finds him on the ramparts.

Theon is clinging to the balcony, dizzy. He's been slipping, lately, he knows it. He promised Yara he'd be strong, he'd be Theon Greyjoy, but-- _If you're so broken that there's no coming back, take a knife and cut your wrists. End it._ No, he won't do that, not yet, but he hasn't slept in so long the world grew soft at the edges, and he hasn't dared touch any food, and horrors keep pressing behind his eyes, through his ears, through his bones, disorienting him. Time slips through the shreds of his mind. It was simpler, when he could just forget his name. It was simpler, when there were no appearances to keep.

"You know I love Missandei of Naath," says Torgo Nuhdo, seemingly out of nowhere.

Theon can barely muster any interest for this right now, but he still nods.

"She has told me of your troubles."

Troubles? What troubles?

He looks at Torgo Nudho and it's not easy to keep himself steady on his feet, but he manages.

"When Masters died, Unsullied still wake up at dawn to train. Unsullied still eat only when allowed. Unsullied still follow same rules," says Torgo Nudho.

Theon nods. He understands this. He understands this perfectly.

"This one put his spear through his Master's chest, yet, every day, when I make mistake, I compose mistake report in my mind, for the Master." 

Yes, that is how it goes, isn't it? That makes sense.

"So we train," says Torgo Nuhdo, and he stands rigid and dangerous and proud. "We make small mistake on purpose. We eat at forbidden time. We rest all day. Do you see?"

He points at a small cluster of Unsullied sitting in the yard's shade. They are not standing in formation, but form a lose circle. They don't entirely look comfortable with this, but one of them is laughing at another's words. Not quite like Westerosi soldiers, but getting closer.

Torgo Nudho finds Theon's eyes and his gaze is uncompromising as he says:

"Masters are just men. Evil men. Make us feel like vermin so they can be God. But they are men. They can be killed. They can be murdered. They fall sick and die. They can be tricked. They lose their battles. Do you understand?"

Theon isn't sure he does, but he nods all the same.

"This you _must_ understand," Torgo Nudho repeats.

His face is stern, his eyes burn like coal. "I was trained to kill, yet I help you, Theon Greyjoy, Reek, ever since I know you. I help you a lot. Now you must learn." Then he smiles that small solemn smile of his. "I go now. To find the woman I love and enjoy my freedom. Good learning to you."

And just like that, Theon's left alone in the heat, with all his knowledges, and with the sight of the Unsullied resting in the shade when they were trained to stand unmoving in the sun.

\--

He starts eating his food again: soups and juice and soft fruit. He cleans his body carefully and grooms his hair. He lays himself to sleep. He is rewarded for this with nausea, and pain, and relentless night terrors, but he does so nevertheless.

He witnessed another training game the Unsullied play: One gives a command, and the other refuses to obey. Then they fight.

Something has been swelling in his heart, at the sight. He wouldn't dare call it hope. He is undeserving of hope. But he can do all this, and more.

\--

He has been summoned to a meeting with the Queen and her advisors. There's Daenerys Stormborn, there's Tyrion Lannister and his weird expression, there's Torgo Nudho and Missandei, there's Yara, jaw set and ready to argue.

This conversation has not started here, he realises. He's been called here to settle matters.

"Theon Greyjoy, you have been honest with me, from the moment we met," says Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. "You have admitted your inabilities, you have admitted your crimes, and I thank you for that. But if you really are mad, that is a liability to us all, and I must know." 

All are looking at him.

"I don't think I'm mad," says Theon, and it's the truth.

The Queen looks at Tyrion Lannister and Tyrion Lannister clears his throat.

"So if I was to tell you," he challenges, "right here and now, of the bastard Ramsay Bolton's death, what would you say?"

Blood fills Theon's vision at hearing the name, pain fills his mouth, flesh burns through his skin, but he answers: "I'd say that I already knew that." 

"Then why do you run away like a tortured rabbit every time I try to tell you?"

Theon can see Torgo Nudho, he can see Missandei, he feels Yara standing at his side. He allows his irritation to surge.

"You know why," he tells Tyrion Lannister and doesn't avoid his eyes.

It's the Lannister who looks away. "Yes," he admits.

"And yet," says Daenerys Stormborn, "if a man is to fight at my side, I must be certain of his reactions. I must be convinced of his loyalties."

Theon flinches at the implication. _Turncloak_. She's right. And, yet--

Theon takes a breath. He looks at Torgo Nudho, remembers his lessons.

"With respect, your Grace," he says, "but I fled Winterfell when he was alive, at his full power, and I had none of what I have now. Only Lady Sansa." Tyrion Lannister's eyes grow anguished at the mention of her name. "We jumped 80 feet from the ramparts. We fled through the snow. We were wounded. We were starved. You could hear his horns and his hounds. Yet, we escaped."

"When he found me on Pyke," adds Yara, "he was dressed in rags, stinking of blood and pus and worse. He could barely stand. He could hardly carry a sword. Yet, he spoke for me at the Kingsmoot. He put on his armour and stood by my side. I have no reason to mistrust his loyalty."

The Queen Daenerys nods, accepting their answers.

"So, these last weeks?" she asks.

Theon shakes his head, uncertain.

"I heard you the first time," he tells Tyrion Lannister. "But-- I didn't."

They are looking at him, as if waiting for a better explanation.

"I understood. I... I do, but I don't-- didn't believe--" Theon hangs his head. "I'm sorry, I know it doesn't make sense."

But Missandei nods, as if she understood perfectly.

"When we live through unfathomable horror, our mind blooms like a flower, each petal carrying its own truth, independent of the other," she says. "I have witnessed this often. One knows and unknows at the same time."

What an incongruously beautiful image for such a nasty thing.

The Lannister looks confused, but the Queen doesn't.

"I was bought by a man who debased me," says Daenerys Stormborn. "Yet, he was the man who freed my power, and I loved him. It is hard to remember one while knowing the other." Her eyes are very soft, for just a moment. "I think I understand, at least a bit."

Theon can feel Yara carefully relax at his side.

Daenerys Stormborn and Yara exchange a look.

They share a nod.

A test has been passed.

But Tyrion Lannister is not done. "Lady Sansa--" he starts, searching for his words, searching for Theon's eyes. "Did he hurt her?"

Theon wants to laugh at the question, wants to say: _Look at me, what do you think?_ but he swallows this petty cruelty. He just says: "Yes," and are these tears on the Lannister's face?

Tyrion Lannister shifts his weight, a silent struggle in the frown of his lips, a conflict in the furrow of his brow, and then he begins, like a man that finally lets go: "I'm going to say something I should have said a long time ago." Theon looks at him, waiting. "I misjudged you," says Tyrion Lannister. "And I made light of your suffering. It pains me to admit that I've been wrong, but I was. Your guilt is yours to carry, but for my ill-spoken words, I'm sorry."

Theon, overwhelmed, just nods.

Ghosts and misery clot the air, and, yet--

There's Yara standing tall at his side, there's Missandei and the smile in her eyes, there's Torgo Nudho and the proud set of his jaw, there's Daenerys who looks fondly at her advisor even though he just admitted to a mistake and she is his Queen.

"Do you know how he died?" Theon asks, finally.

Tyrion Lannister hesitates a second, then says: "I hear he was eaten by his hounds at the behest of Lady Sansa."

A giddiness rises up Theon's chest. A laughter crawls up his throat. He smiles, all his splintered teeth on display, all while tears blur his vision.

"That is very good," he says.

He will remember.

The Queen Daenerys stands, skirts flowing against the floor. Her hair gleams in the light, her eyes are sure.

The meeting is over.

"I thank you all for your hard work," she says. "You may leave."

To Yara, she says: "You may stay," and Yara's look is one of unabashed glee. 

If there is a reason Theon survived, he will try to do it justice.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the Meereen setting, check out [What Is Just](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299459) (a not quite prequel)
> 
> Thanks for reading & your comments & kudos :)


End file.
